


The Magnus Archives After Hours: a collection of oneshots

by bones_mcstones



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Falling In Love, Fluff, M/M, Oneshot, jonmartin, the magnus archives is a tragedy and i am still upset by it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:54:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25672387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bones_mcstones/pseuds/bones_mcstones
Summary: SPOILERS AHEAD; //this one shot takes place at the end of SN 3/beginning of Sn 4; after the Unknowing but before Jon wakes up
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	The Magnus Archives After Hours: a collection of oneshots

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS AHEAD; //this one shot takes place at the end of SN 3/beginning of Sn 4; after the Unknowing but before Jon wakes up

Martin knew his subtlety was lacking. Whenever his focus broke when he sat at his desk, he could sense something- someone- as if when he looked up, they looked away. The itching feeling of a watching presence. He also knew, intimately, that because of this lack of subtlety, the questions his absence as dictated by Peter would instigate. The hours he would spend away from the archive, brushing past people wordlessly. When he was present, the archive had an air he couldn't place since the archivist’s untimely ‘sick leave’ and Martin had never seen the halls so empty. With Melanie distant as ever and Basira’s grief, Martin truly felt alone. It only made sense he found solace in Jon’s passtime. 

Each statement he recorded, he felt a little closer to having Jon back. He would often stay up late reorganizing and alphabetizing written and taped statements, ensuring the archives remained spick and span, even with their infrequent use as of late. Until he stumbled upon a written statement strewn in the unrecorded pile; one covered in chicken scratch and coffee stains. Under all the overlapping pen strokes, Martin could suss out Jon’s writing- tight, neat, but the Ls always brushed a bit too close to the Ts and the Is were never dotted. 

Martin surmised that he could have a bit of fun with this. Record the internal musings of his boss to show him when he got back. A practical joke between coworkers, friends. Or maybe just for him, just so he could always remember the turn of his phrase, even if he would never see him again. He shuddered at the thought and pushed it from his mind before he got too emotional. With a click, the tape recorder turned from off to recording, and Martin cleared his throat.

“Statement of Jonathan Sims,” he spoke, mildly amused, “about- uh,” his eyes darted down the page, landing on the most common proper noun he could find. “About the concerning statements of one Martin K. Blackwood,” he whispered, a tremor in his voice, “Original statement given Martin Blackwood recording.” 

_Since Prentis’ raid I’ve been certain of two things; trust is dangerous, and Martin writes better poetry than I gave him credit for. Most seem to have little to no meaning, but once you get past surface content, you start to really understand the symbolism and it is quite concerning. In a recent transcription, I found myself tearing up. It’s surprising to hear Martin saying things such as ‘an empty grave awaits’ and that ‘time has caught up to the wanderer’._

_My worry is not only rooted in symbolism, however contrived it may be. It seems that sometimes after he is done recording he either enjoys venting to someone or some presence, and may forget he is recording entirely and fall victim to his emotions. Listening back, his cries were so gentle, so quiet, as if he was across the room. He cries for his mother, for the childhood he lost to care for her. How he blames himself whenever she struggles. He cries because he is alone. He is afraid-_

Martin’s hands shook. He had recorded himself at his lowest? His most vulnerable? And Jon heard it? His forehead contorted, eyebrows scrunching, tears edged his eyelids. Allowing himself a moment of self-pity, he reached an arm to the clunky recorder and stopped the spinning of the tape. His shoulders shuddered, rolling forward- his elbows resting on the table- his last brace holding him upright, keeping him from collapsing in despair. Martin’s tears fell heavy on the stained writing of his lost love, pooling at the bottom of the page, drawing his gaze toward the last words written in Jon’s scrawling script; _I won’t fail him this time. I will get back to him, he doesn’t have to be alone anymore. I just hope it’s not too little, too late._

A choked sob caught itself in Martin’s throat, causing sputtering coughs that wracked his body. He allowed his head to sink forward, his fingers tangling in his cropped hair and his palms pressed to his temples. No wonder he must keep his distance from others. All he does is cause them anguish. Peter was right. It’s the only way. So long as Jon didn’t wake up, everything would be okay. Martin didn’t have to face reality. Or anyone for that matter. He and Peter would save the world, so long as Martin did as he was told. And he would. If only so that when it was all over he’d have Jon to go back to. Or maybe he’d just be alive to remember him. It would all be worth it in the end. The end justifies the means and all that. 

Weeks passed. No news was good news, he figured, but perhaps it _was_ for lack of trying. He hadn’t spoken to, let alone seen Melanie or Basira and he had much more time to prepare for the apocalypse as Peter instructed following his mother’s death. So, naturally, he wasn’t the first at Jon’s bedside on the day he woke up. He didn’t visit either. He didn’t know. Or notice. All he could do was as he was told, and he was told to focus. 

He didn’t, however, remember to record over the tape. So when Jon got back and gathered up the tape recorders, he noticed one had been used. The contents therein shocked him; Martin had seen his notes, Martin knew of his intentions. He had wondered why Martin was avoiding him, and this was as good a reason as any. With a stroke of luck, however, he was able to corner him in the halls of the institute proper.

For Martin, Jon was the most pressing distractor. If he were to succeed, Jon had to be put on the back-burner. The look in Jon’s eyes- concern, care- as if he truly wanted to help him. To make him feel seen. But Martin didn’t want to be seen. Not like this. He wanted to be seen on his terms, as someone who can be trusted, someone who can be sent on important missions; someone who can do the right thing, even if it’s the hard thing. Ignoring Jon was the hard thing. 

“Martin, have you been avoiding me?” Jon was genuinely inquisitive, it was unlike Martin to be so aloof and absent from his usual archival duties.

“Erm, no- what gave you that impression?” he was hesitant as he spoke, as if he was trying to convince himself that his actions weren’t questionable at best. He turned and began walking toward the exit, Jon hot on his tail. Martin chewed the inside of his lip, “I’ve just been rather busy, Jon, nothing to be bothered about.” 

“You are never this distant, Martin, if you’re going to lie, you may as well lie well. There’s something going on with you.” Martin felt his cheeks get red, his resolve building, and he whipped around to face his boss, ready to give him a piece of his mind.

“Don’t tell me how I feel. **_Not everything I do is about you!_ **” he shouted. As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Martin’s hands shot up to cover his mouth and wordlessly he turned and dashed out the door, leaving Jon lurking in the doorway. 

Jon placed a hand against his head, leaning on the wood frame of the institute’s doors. He had pushed too far. If he was going to get to Martin, to truly help him, he would need to do it against his will. And with subtlety. He couldn’t leave him to face this alone. But he had to let him go, despite how every bone in his feeble frame longed to reach for him, craved so deeply to grasp his face in his palms and whisper safety to his lips. Jon had to let him go, alone.


End file.
